I spent my lunch easing my hangover with ice-cold highballs, jotting out drafts of my pitch to Carrigan and trying not to consider MacLeish’s offer, what that would mean. It would mean the end of my debt to the Lady, for one. I doodled as I drank, thinking.
Even if I was considering MacLeish’s offer, I didn’t have much to give him. No name, no address, nothing he could use. And I knew better than to think it would be as easy as showing up at the station, announcing that I had a lead for him. Surefire way to end up handcuffed.
But it didn’t matter. Because I wasn’t going to betray Lou, and that’s what this would amount to. I couldn’t leave Lou behind. And I knew she’d never leave the Lady willingly. But fifteen grand on top of the eleven that I owed the Lady—even if it all went smoothly with Carrigan, it was a big chunk of change I’d be sacrificing. That did sting. And between the debt and the murder, there was so much about me the Lady knew, while I knew nothing. Even if I’d never give the information to MacLeish, it couldn’t hurt to have something about the Lady in my back pocket.
And, I realized, I did have something. I riffled through the pages on my desk, looking for the envelope with the blue fleur-de-lis where I’d written down the Lady’s license plate—the envelope Ellen had tossed aside to get to the bribe money. I tried to remember if I’d tossed it out with the rest of the things Ellen had touched, but I wasn’t sure—those days were a soggy blur. It wasn’t on my desk. I checked every drawer and even moved the desk a foot out to make sure it hadn’t slipped anywhere. No luck. My one concrete link to the Lady, vanished.
From my office, anyway. Maybe Lou had noticed the envelope floating around and pocketed it, one more sign of the Lady she swept away for safekeeping. Loyal Lou, who kept all the Lady’s secrets.
I walked to the front door and flipped the lock closed.
I stared at our three office doors. I could almost see the ghost of Ellen—had it been only a week ago?—outlined in my doorway, steeling her spine to face me and make her demands. Patting down her fluffy blonde hair with one hand while she rapped on my door with the other. Thinking about myself at that moment, how the only thing I’d wanted was to prove to the Lady—to Lou—that I was good at my job, good enough to be let in on all the little secrets they held so close between the two of them.
Well, Ellen, back then neither one of us knew we’d turn out to be murderers, did we?
I opened the door to Lou’s office. One of the benefits of our office’s past as a massage parlor: none of the doors locked from the outside.
In the unlit office, a disjointed shrub the size of a yacht squatted on Lou’s desk, threatening to topple her sea of notes. I squinted, stepping forward.
The arrangement was a monster, reaching nearly to the ceiling, a bright and gaudy spray of hot-pink calla lilies, dotted through with blood-red roses and choked by baby’s breath. It might as well have come with a price tag attached. It hadn’t been enough to rub my nose in her exploits with the bartender, Lou had to flaunt roses, too? Probably from Mr. Alibi. I slapped the vase, sending the water sloshing and rocking.
A slim white card fell onto Lou’s floor. Of course Mr. Alibi would leave a card. He’d want credit. Maybe he’d included the receipt, too, for good measure. I didn’t even hesitate.
Dear Lou, thank you for a job well done. I shall keep the Agency in mind for any future jobs.—Widow in the Sunshine City
I frowned at the card. It struck me as overly paranoid, to send flowers and sign a card that way, even for our clients. But the sign-off was tugging at some half-forgotten thing I knew, an itch I couldn’t scratch or shake. I flipped the card over my knuckles as I sifted through the rest of Lou’s notes—some might call it snooping—looking for an envelope with a blue fleur-de-lis.
My eyes registered it before my fingers, and I had to skim backward a few pages before I found it again. The blue fleur-de-lis envelope was identical to the one I was looking for, except instead of a license plate written on the back, Jackal’s name was printed on the front. I shook out its contents.
Inside, there was a receipt from the Albatross Coffee Shop in Koreatown, an address not even a mile from our office. I squinted. The receipt was for $713.36. That was a shitload of coffee. There was nothing else in the envelope, but when I flipped the receipt over, in delicate blue pen strokes, there was a note: Due Nov. 30. Albatross—I’d seen that on Jackal’s desk once before, I remembered. So there was something the Lady was covering up for Jackal. Gambling debts, maybe. A lot of slates she was wiping clean on behalf of her employees. I tried not to imagine what she might have on Lou.
I slid the receipt into the envelope and placed the stacks of paper back on top of it, combing through them one time to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. But there were only more notes, magazines, invoices. The Lady Upstairs must’ve been the last woman in Los Angeles to keep paper invoices. No envelopes. Nothing that looked the least bit useful.
And then it hit me. The Bride in the Dark City. Klein’s first major film, a critically acclaimed hit that made not only his career but those of a handful of other people associated with the film. Including the leading lady who he’d gone on to cast in dozens of other productions and who, years later, couldn’t mention his name in interviews without a veil dropping over her eyes.
I dropped the card, stunned. It shouldn’t have been worse to realize Ellen had died only to protect the Lady’s organization. Even if I’d known Klein’s wife had been the one to hire us, it wouldn’t have changed what happened. But still. I would’ve almost preferred the roses be from Alibi. Because if the widow wasn’t so grieving, maybe Mrs. Klein wouldn’t have asked questions about her husband’s death. Maybe she would’ve even helped us cover it up. If that was true . . . I closed my eyes. I couldn’t let myself think it.
I wondered why Lou hadn’t mentioned it, that we’d been working for Klein’s wife. Helping her ensure a tidy divorce settlement, no doubt. She’d done this for so many years, seeing the very worst in people, bringing out the very worst in people. Maybe it no longer struck her as anything special.
I stared at the flowers, trying to think. Such gaudy mourning lilies from the devastated widow, the betrayed wife.
There was an idea.
I went back through the invoices on Lou’s desk, carefully this time. It didn’t take long for me to find the phone bill. I plucked the sheet off Lou’s desk and stuffed it in my pocket.
Later, at home at Tarantula Gardens, I’d circle the numbers that appeared most frequently and try them until I reached the Lady. I was almost positive I’d remember her voice. It was so simple, I could’ve laughed. Start with the phone records: the original clue to infidelity. Lou, I’m learning. You’ll be proud of me yet.
I folded the invoice and shoved it into my pocket, fleeing from Lou’s flowers, which leered at me like something wild and still living, petals already starting to fall in a bloody pool over her notes.
One last stop before I could go home and get ready for Carrigan the next day. The streets were whizzing by in the inky hot twilight, gray-white streaks of houses and parked cars and family units, and I was thinking, I’m not even drunk anymore, and then I was in front of Jackal’s apartment, parking the car and tripping up the stairs.
Jackal answered his door looking sleepy and annoyed—looking different, somehow. But maybe I was the one who was different. The feel of another mark on me. It had been so long.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in, hot stuff?” I wiggled my shoulders at him. Jackal’s frown deepened, but he stepped aside. I leaned forward and grabbed his chin, kissing him hard.
He pushed me away first. “You taste like you’ve been licking a bathroom floor.”
I kissed him again, harder, nipping at his chin, then shucked my shoes off and headed for his kitchen. I ransacked the cupboards until I found a bottle. I held it up, eyebrows raised, a clear offer, and Jackal waved his hand, a no. And I realized what was different wasn’t me, but him. He was, of all things, sober. And had been for a few days. His eyes were clear green marbles, no clouds. How strange.
“What’s got you so goddamn chipper?” Jackal leaned a hip against the counter, his arms crossed, and watched me dunk a few fingers of warmish tequila into a glass. I looked for citrus to cut the flavor, but Jackal was fresh out of limes, so I settled on a molding orange from the fridge.
“What was the biggest score we ever made?”
Jackal thought a moment, pondering all the bribes it had been his responsibility to turn over to the Lady Upstairs, and I took a sip of my drink. A moldy orange-and-tequila cocktail: I almost gagged it back up again. That didn’t taste so great, either.
“I think Lou turned fifty grand one time. Years ago.”
Fifty grand. Carrigan could definitely get his hands on that, or more. If he was properly inspired. “And how much of that did we see?” The next sip went down only feeling like orange-tinted gasoline.
“The usual. Lou got twenty-five percent, I got another ten. Do the math.”
I drained the glass, feeling the buzz of the alcohol and Carrigan’s hands on the small of my back, my hips as he pressed me into his lips. Golden fingerprints on my waist, my hips, my ass. A modern-day Midas.
“That’s a big percentage the Lady keeps,” I said, watching those sober green eyes. Greed was the way to go with Jackal. A man who was feeding a habit by selling photographs on the side wouldn’t say no to cash. “On top of what the clients pay her.”
“I will have a drink.” Jackal reached to pour himself a thimbleful of the warm tequila. He drank it straight. “Carrigan,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
“That’s right.”
“That kind of money doesn’t take kindly to blackmail.” Jackal closed his eyes, and his nostrils flared against the tequila. “You know better than that.”
“Look at you, big man cautious,” I said. “That’s a hell of a new quality to pull on me now.”
“The police have already questioned you once about murder. Better to keep a low profile.”
“If you’d listen to me, the police won’t even be a problem.” I did not want to think about murder. I did not want to think about Ellen dead in the back seat of Klein’s car. I explained what I wanted, that we had an opportunity to take Carrigan, make a windfall without the Lady being involved. That we could ship enough money the way of the police that they would forget all about Ellen and then it would be smooth sailing for all of us. I left out one or two details.
Jackal stared past me, thinking it through. His tongue swiveled around his lips, and then he shook his head. “It won’t work.”
“I know it will,” I said. It had to. Jackal looked skeptical. “Besides,” I went on, feeling nasty and liking it, “there’s always those photographs. I think the fact that I haven’t mentioned them to Lou or the Lady is worth something. I think the Lady would be pretty pissed if she found out you were making side money off her business. Doesn’t that make you a liability? Particularly now, when we all need to keep a low profile.”
Jackal chewed on his lip and avoided looking at me. He kept fiddling with something in his pocket. I tried to think of another time I’d seen him nervous. I couldn’t think of any.
Finally, Jackal scratched the back of his head, laughed bitterly. “Oh yes, there’s always those photographs, aren’t there?” He shoved me out of the way, poured himself another drink. Nearly chewed through the glass to get at the liquor. He needed courage for whatever he was about to tell me. “How about this, sweetheart. They’re not for blackmail. Well, not anymore. They’re for the police.”
“What?” I blinked, gaping at him. “How did this happen? How long?”
He told me the whole story. How one of Lou’s marks had lodged a formal complaint, then retracted it, but the police had followed up on the tip anyway, started asking questions about the organization. How Jackal had been stealthily sliding photographs, a few throwaway shots of older cases, undated, to the police in exchange for immunity, should he ever need it.
“But now it doesn’t matter. Things have changed with Ellen dead. They’re leaning on me for anything I know about the Lady, about the business. If I don’t give them what I have in two days . . .” he said, trailing off with a shrug. I heard him, but I was also hearing the heart of the entire condominium. The bones of it creaking and settling. From the next room over, someone coughed loudly, twice. Under that, I could hear the buzz of the fan from Jackal’s bedroom. The air sent the dust ruffle of his couch gently waving back and forth. There was a stain on his carpet, brown, in the shape of a heart. Near the sofa. I’d never noticed.
Everything I’d worked for with Lou, and how hard I’d tried to be the woman the Lady wanted me to be, and now: nothing. Even if I got the money from Carrigan on time, the police were already closing in on the Lady’s operation. MacLeish was so eager for information on the Lady, but with Jackal’s photographs and a sworn statement, he wouldn’t need anything from me.
“Two more days,” I repeated.
“Two days,” he agreed. “And then I’ll start over somewhere else. Maybe Mexico. But you could do it, too, you could come with me. You’d testify against Lou, Lou and the Lady, of course. It’s the only way—someone has to take the fall. Especially since we don’t even have the Lady’s name, but we could still—”
“Testify against Lou?”
“I know,” he said. “I know. But what other option is there?”
I stared at him. “You’re not serious.” He didn’t say anything. I stared down at that heart on the carpet until I could think straight again. Even if the police already knew, I couldn’t let him testify against Lou. A small plan started to form, a not-very-good one, but I didn’t have anything better. “How much?”
“What?”
“How much,” I said, “for you to sell me those photographs before you split town? I’m not leaving with you, and I’m not testifying against Lou. So how much for you not to give those photos to the police? Name your price.”
“Jo, you can’t possibly think you can stay in Los Angeles now—”
“I’m not going to let you do this to her,” I snapped. “And I’m not leaving with you.”
“No,” he said, rubbing his face. He drained the glass, wouldn’t look at me. “I didn’t really think you would. But don’t you ever want to get out of here?” He refilled the glass, then stared at the liquid. Dumped it back out. He met my eyes and shook his head. “I do. Christ almighty, I do.”
I sneered at him. Regret was wasted after the fact—I knew that better than anyone. “Good luck finding another boss who’ll set you up with a monthly poker stipend.”
Jackal’s brow folded like an accordion. “You think I want that? You think that was my idea?” He shook his head, his lip curling. “You ever notice how hard the Lady works to keep us tied to our vices, Jo?”
“Name your price. And then once you help me with Carrigan, you can leave town forever if you’re so goddamn ready to be gone.”
In the end, it didn’t take him long to come up with a number. It wasn’t even as high as I’d expected. Money eyes. We shook on it and he invited me to stay, but I didn’t even dignify that with a response. He didn’t speak again until I was almost out the door.
“Jo, look at me.” I half turned, could see him out of the corner of my eye. On another man, I would’ve thought the look on his face was tenderness. He reached a hand out, almost touching me. “Even if you don’t leave with me, you should still leave. This job isn’t a home, it’s a prison. Somewhere, some part of you knows it.” I looked down at his hand, still hovering near my waist, then up at his face. He spread his arms. It might’ve been an invitation for me to step into them. “Look at you. You’re drinking yourself to death,” he said.
“I’ll see you soon,” I said, and I shut the door on him.